Free Book 1 - Shadowline by Glen Cook Page B

Dee’s
temple. He looked a little pale.
    Michael Dee was the financial power behind his daughter Helga,
who managed that cold clerical principality called Festung
Todesangst on Helga’s World. He and his daughter had just
been assigned a potentially embarrassing piece of property.
    Mouse stared at his father’s back. Not even he could so
cold-bloodedly order a death!
    “Blow Michael’s ship, too,” Storm ordered.
“Make it look like Abhoussi got close enough for their fields
to brush. Have Benjamin and Lucifer take care of it. It’s
time they paid their dues.”
    The brothers Darksword seized the executive’s arms. They
remained impassive as they marched the Blackworlder to his doom.
They might have been two old gentlemen off for an afternoon stroll
with a friend.
    Mouse’s guts twisted into a painful little knot.
    Storm turned his back on Dee. He whispered, “Cassius, just
confine him on one of the manned outstations. Officially, he never
arrived. Pass the word.”
    “This won’t buy more than a month,” Cassius
replied. “Richard is damned mad. And the Blake outfit is
touchy about its people.”
    Mouse sighed. His father was not a monster after all.
    “They’ll be realistic. They want us bad. Let’s
stall and up their ante. I want a seat on their board and a
percentage of their take on the Shadowline thing.”
    “You trying to price us out of the market?”
    “I don’t think I can. Keep an eye on the twins. We
don’t need any more of their crap.”
    “Uhn.” Cassius followed the Darkswords and their
victim.
    Storm departed a moment later. He left his son Thurston, the
warhounds, and the ravenshrikes to watch Michael Dee.
    His eye narrowed in anger as he brushed by Mouse. He took a
hitch-step, as if considering leaving his son with a few choice
words about obedience. He changed his mind, resumed his angry
stalk. Mouse’s failure to return to Academy was the least of
his problems.
    Mouse sighed. There would be time for the idea to grow on his
father. Time for Cassius to argue his case.
    He watched his father leave, frowning. What now? Pollyanna had
fled along that corridor a moment ago. Why would his father be
following her?
     
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Seventeen: 2844 AD
    The old man’s name was Jackson, but Deeth had to call him
master. He was an outcast even among the descendants of escaped and
discarded slaves. He lived in a fetid cave three miles from the
animal village. He had parlayed a few sleight-of-hand tricks and a
sketchy medical knowledge into a witch-doctor’s career. His
insane temper and magic were held in awe by his client-victims, who
were an utterly mean, degenerate people themselves.
    In less than a week Deeth knew that Jackson was a thorough
fraud, that he was nothing but a lonely old man enraged by a world
he believed had used him ill. His career was an attempt to get
back. He was a sad, weak, pathetic creature, incontestably mad, and
in his madness was utterly ruthless. Hardly a day passed when he
did not torture Deeth for some fancied insult.
    He brewed a foul grain beer in the rear of his cave. There were
hundreds of gallons in storage or process. Deeth had to keep a full
mug ready at all times. Inevitably, Jackson was partially drunk.
That did nothing to dampen his free-wheeling temper. But what Deeth
found most repulsive were Jackson’s hygienic standards.
    He came near wretching often that first week. The old man
refused to do more than stand and aim aside when he voided his
bladder. He never bathed. The cave was more fetid than any
animal’s den.
    He kept Deeth on a ten-foot leash knotted to choke at a tug. The
boy soon learned that chokings had nothing to do with his efforts
to please or displease. The old man yanked when he felt a need for
amusement.
    For him the sight of a small boy strangling was the height of
entertainment.
    Having identified a breakdown between cause and effect, Deeth
abandoned efforts to satisfy Jackson. He did what he had to, and
spent the rest of his time